The merits of Mr. Mike’s have been mix and match. My first experience at the steakhouse commenced on a recent wintery Sunday afternoon with a mob of clamorous and mischievous ilk expected to accompany this writer.
Despite the expanse of available real estate in the Okotoks establishment, we were inexplicably seated in immediate proximity to a nice, normal family. They probably have a cute, well-behaved pet and drive a Volvo. After a few educational minutes within earshot of our boisterous band, they got their meals to go. We were so jovial and loud, we nearly attracted the attention of a waitress.
The drinks were great, one of the ladies in my party being served a spectacular Dadaistic slushee precariously heaped into its glass. Positive reports on steak sandwiches and burgers emanated from our booth, my dish of fiery prawns and noodles equally notable. A good time was had by all, save one marred family unit.
Understandably, restaurants don’t put their star chef on the Sunday shift, but the pleasant surprise of my original visit warranted a return. My latest appearance at the restaurant however, was brutal. The inadequate service was consistent with my inaugural experience even though the restaurant was empty, but the food was also substandard on this occasion.
I ordered a different noodle dish, one in which the cook prepared noodles that expired sometime during the Ming Dynasty. Whatever unpalatable hodgepodge of sauces and spices were ham fistedly slammed together in this dish radiated a mephitic odor and committed a wrathful assault on my taste buds. I can only speculate that this food had been retrieved from an autopsy. My companion’s meal was no prize either, a salad that had obviously been pre-prepared and stored in a cooler, making the tortilla chips as limp as the lettuce.
If you’re going to eat at a Steakhouse on Sunday, don’t stake anything on Mr. Mike’s unsavory savoir-faire.
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